Parasite
by Stealth Dragon
Summary: If you thought the Iratus bug was bad...


**Parasite**

By

Stealth Dragon

Rating: T – proceed reading with caution if you have a weak constitution.

Disclaimer – Not mine not mine not mine not mine...! Not mine! Gosh!

Synopsis – If you think the iratus bug was bad... This little ditty's been on my mind for a while. It was inspired by the scene in The Gift – at least I think it was that episode – When Carson talks about the iratus bug and Sheppard gets all nervous, reminding Carson that they weren't supposed to bring it up. Let me warn you that there's a good chance this'll make you squirm.

SGA

Sheppard's team sloshed, slopped, and squished into Beckett's once-upon-a-time nice clean infirmary as per the mandatory post mission checkup, marking their path from gate-room to med-unit in the form of puddles and muddy footprints. Carson took one look at the equivalent of mud-people, and immediately became depressed.

Each of the team took to the beds and gurneys nearest them, and hauled their weary, filthy bodies up onto the edge. Dr. McKay flipped mud and water from his fingers, seething, blue eyes ice cold and locked onto Lt. Colonel Sheppard. Rodney said nothing, just stared as though looks really could kill. And Carson knew – a mute Rodney was a pissed off beyond words Rodney. The physicist would remain silent until the two magic words were spoken.

Carson sighed heavily as he positioned himself within the center of the surrounding team. " What happened?"

Rodney stabbed a rigid finger at John. " Ask the man who thought it would be a good idea to take a very long, very _painful_ tumble down a hill that ended at a freakin' swamp!"

" It was not the Colonel's fault, Rodney," Teyla said, wringing water from her hair. She adjusted her gaze to be on Beckett. " We were forced to flee from a stampeding herd of Ioclats..."

" Red bison the size of elephants," Rodney petulantly explained.

Teyla continued. " The herd was quite large, and we would have been trampled had we not gone down the hill."

" Into quicksand!" Rodney snarled.

Ronon, after shaking his head like a wet dog, gave Rodney a dark look. " It wasn't that deep."

Rodney snorted. " Maybe not for Chewie and the six foot toothpick over there," he jerked his thumb at John. " But I tend to get a little disconcerted when wet mud is trying to slide down my trachea!"

Carson looked over at John when he heard the man's heavy exhale. Sheppard wasn't even looking at Rodney. He was staring at the floor with a distant, bone-weary countenance that made Carson tired just to observe.

" You survived, didn't you?" John countered.

Rodney rubbed his throat. " Barely the way Chewie over there pulled me out. You grab the jacket, not the shirt."

Ronon's eyes narrowed dangerously. " I grabbed what I could see."

" And my one free arm flailing around wasn't visible enough for you?"

" I saw it," Ronon flatly stated, " but you kept moving it too much for me to grab it..."

Carson finally raised both hands just as Rodney's mouth opened for a retort.

" All right!" Carson snapped, then forced calm on himself. " That's enough. Let's get the lot of you checked over so you can finish this little debate beyond my all-sufferin' ears."

Carson dispersed his nurses to each member for the routine check of blood-pressure, pupils, heart, lungs, and blood-sample collecting. Carson moved between each, supervising and looking over results. Wet jackets were pooled on the floor, leaking water and making the floor precarious to walk on. The team shared in a collection of scrapes, bumps, and bruises. Rodney had a rather nasty scrape on his chin, Teyla a freely-bleeding cut on her shoulder blade, Ronon had deep scrapes on both arms from taking a slide in order to avoid a charging Ioclat, and John had a cut on his back parallel as well as uncomfortably close to his spine, delivered by an Ioclat horn that had managed to snag him. He was also sporting a rather unpleasant smell courtesy – Rodney explained – of the Colonel slipping and falling back down into a massive pile of Ioclat crap.

It wasn't a deep cut, more like a nasty scratch. With the help of a nurse, Carson peeled the drenched T-shirt from John for easier access to the wound. He cleaned the wound, the area around it, but left it uncovered seeing as how John would definitely be taking a bath in the near future.

" Ya come back when you're finished," Carson said, " so I can bandage that." The Scottish doc peeled the muddy and blood-stained latex gloves from his hands and tossed them into the bio-hazard receptacle. " All right then, my wee bairns, you're good to go. Shower, food, rest, and I mean it. I catch any of you doin' otherwise..." he looked pointedly at John, " and you're back in here sufferin' a gown and a gurney. Got it?"

Everyone nodded wearily with mumbled affirmations. Carson gave a curt nod in return. " Good. Now off with ya."

The team moved stiff and slow from the beds and out of the infirmary. The moment they were gone, Carson's eyes traveled from muddy puddle to muddy puddle and the sopping jackets still piled on the floor in between. He sighed, and shook his head. _Thank goodness for underlings._

" Cassy," he called, " would ya be a dear and get this sorted?" Carson left Cassy to janitor duty and headed for the lab for an update on the blood works. He was quickly handed the results when they were finally gathered, and a perusal of the finds revealed nothing out of the ordinary. But this was only day one. Beckett never remained satisfied until day three when the blood work results still had nothing unsavory to report.

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John rested his forehead against the wall of the shower for the high-pressure spray to beat down on his stiff neck. He felt several muscles unwind, but his head still throbbed to the rhythm of his heart, his stomach coiled and uncoiled, and all his bruises were taking on a more active presence. Then there was that cut on his back that was starting to itch. It extended four ribs down starting from his upper back, but went only skin deep rather than tissue. Small insert of fortune there. John relished the wounds that didn't leave him in the infirmary.

John placed his hands palm-flat on the wall to push away enough in order to roll his head and stretch the cramping muscles of his neck. Then he proceeded to wash with soap, being gentle around the cut. He washed his hair, rinsed, and was done. After stepping out and drying off, he dressed, going for comfortable in a pair of black sweats and a gray T-shirt. No reason to get back into uniform with the briefing withheld until tomorrow. John had had to restrain himself from throwing his arms around Elizabeth for that one. John was so tired he barely registered shuffling his way down to the infirmary to get bandaged up, and didn't realize he was barefoot until Carson had pointed it out. Beckett applied an antibiotic cream, then covered the long wound with gauze and tape. Sheppard was released to go shuffling back to his room.

Even with the cream, the wound continued to itch. John forewent dinner and climbed beneath the covers of his bed, lying on his side but almost on his chest. His body practically melted into the mattress, and he sighed in utter contentment. Nothing like running for one's life to make for a good night's sleep later on.

The itch made John squirm. He reached around himself, not to scratch, but to rub the area. It helped, a little, just enough to ignore it. A spasm in the muscle of his back was less difficult to ignore, as though the itch had moved, crawling beneath his skin to go tickle some other area of his back. John shifted with a grimace. It felt as though bugs were crawling around beneath his flesh, and the thought made him shudder and his stomach clench. Thankfully the spasm stopped and the muscle relaxed.

_But darned if I'm not going to have nightmares now._ Sometimes, John hated his own body.

SGA

John Sheppard awoke feeling drained. It was early, the usual hour when he got up for a run, and the usual feeling after getting his butt kicked by over-sized buffalo and a hill. It would have to be a casual jog today rather than his usual, vigorous gallop. He remained in his T-shirt and sweats, pulled on some socks, his tennis-shoes, grabbed a bottle of water from off his dresser-top, then headed out to the section of city that afforded the best unobstructed path. Ronon was waiting for him, and without a word the two gave eachother a nod of greeting.

Even during the run they didn't speak, per the routine. Running was a time to clear the head, and talking normally did the opposite.

They weren't five minutes in, not even to the raised catwalk, when John's steady breathing began to labor and his heart thudded with effort. Another minute passed, and he was sweating profusely, slowing almost to a walk. Ronon slowed with him, regarding him carefully.

" Still sore?" he asked.

John, mouth hanging open like a panting dog and breath rasping down his throat to burn his lungs, shook his head. " I've been through worse and haven't tired this quickly." They slowed to a walk. Ten minutes later, John's legs nearly gave out. He stopped, doubling over with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. " Okay... This is weird..." He cleared his throat, and straightened to take a long gulp from his water.

" Maybe you're getting sick," Ronon stated matter-of-factly.

John twisted the cap back onto the bottle with an irritated twist. " Great, that's all I need. A reason for getting my ass hauled back into the infirmary. What was it McKay said? Parasites in the water so don't pee? I didn't pee, did you pee? Crap, I probably swallowed some. I don't..." he dropped his hands to his sides and slumped his shoulders. " I'm starting to sound like McKay. Maybe I'm just hungry. I kind of skipped dinner last night."

Ronon shrugged. " That'll do it, sometimes."

John nodded. " That's gotta be it. Let's head back."

There was no way in hell he was going to the infirmary if he could help it.

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John sat down across from a wide-eyed McKay who seemed to have frozen in time with his fork full of scrambled eggs half-way to his mouth. John gave McKay a wary once over and scowled.

" What?"

Rodney pointed using his other hand at John's tray. John looked down at his food – pancakes, French toast, scrambled eggs, toast, apple, orange, bowl of fruit, milk, orange juice, and a bowl of oatmeal – then looked back at Rodney. " So?"

Rodney broke from imitating a statue to drop his fork with a clatter and glare incredulously at John. " So! Your tray's more packed than mine. Since when the hell did you start eating more than me? Not that I like holding any kind of record for being able to pack the most food, but normally you settle for oatmeal, an apple, and milk. And that's on the days when you say you're starved. Every other time it's usually toast."

John shrugged. " I didn't eat much yesterday. I'm making up for it."

Rodney huffed out a breathy, sardonic laugh before frowning. " Oh please. Pancakes – maybe – but not the whole freakin' menu. You're just going to end up throwing half of that away."

John picked up his fork and tucked into his food. " Wanna bet?"

" Gladly. Five Snickers bars sound good?"

" You're on."

The two men fell silent as they ate, and ate, and ate. John dug into everything until it was gone, and even licked every plate and bowl clean for emphasis. When he was finished, he sat back, full but not stuffed, which even he found odd. McKay, finished with his own food a long time ago, stared round-eyed and slack-jawed at Sheppard. John held out his hand palm up and wagged his fingers.

" Pay up." John grinned. " I've still got room for more."

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Rodney kept shooting John suspicious looks at the conference room table. But rather than getting on John's nerves, it was making him nervous. He had to admit, it hadn't felt right eating so much in one sitting for breakfast. He was normally a light-breakfast kind of guy, his stomach content eating one or two things, not an entire buffet worth of food with space to spare for two Snickers bars. Adding to the unease was a mild feeling of lethargy in his limbs that neither running nor copious amounts of food had diminished. He wanted a nap, and if there was one kind of guy he definitely wasn't, it was a nap kind of guy.

The briefing finally went under way the moment Elizabeth arrived. Rodney and John did most of the recounting, how trade negotiations went well, how everything was all fine and dandy until the return trip back to the gate when the giant buffalo stampeded. They'd fallen into some kind of sinking mud-pit with a solid bottom that kept them from sinking further. They struggled out, got caught in a sudden rainstorm, headed back, and the rest was annoying history. The details of the trade negotiations were handled by Teyla since she had been the one doing most of the negotiating.

John's mind drifted into languid, incoherent thoughts that were numbingly pleasant. It wasn't as though he needed to listen to a repeat of what he'd been witness to the other day. His eyes blinked heavily, and his head sagged until his chin touched his chest.

A dull, sudden ache in his ribs got his head shooting back up and around until he looked down to see Rodney's elbow digging into his side. He looked quizzically at Rodney, whose eyes kept darting to and from John. John followed their path to Dr. Weir. She was staring at him with her arms folded across her chest, and her expression a little irate.

John's heart shrank, and he swallowed. " Um... what?"

" I asked," Dr. Weir said, " if there was anything more you'd like to add."

John blinked, wracked his brain for anything he might have over looked, and finally shook his head. " Uh... No, not really."

Weir nodded. " All right then. This briefing is done. You're all dismissed. And John?"

" Yeah?"

" Might I suggest drinking more coffee before these meetings?" She grinned. " I'd really appreciate a little more undivided attention."

John rose abruptly from his chair, his hand moving toward his neck, only to drop so he could hook both his thumbs into his pockets and feign nonchalance – very pathetic nonchalance, he knew. " Uh, yeah. Sorry. Just, um... Yeah, I'll do that."

Elizabeth's expression softened, just a tad. " Are you all right John?"

John rolled his shoulders. " A little stiff, but not too bad."

Elizabeth didn't say anything for a moment, just stared at him. John fought not to squirm under the scrutiny.

" All right," Elizabeth said. " Maybe you should get some rest, too. You look tired."

John pursed his lips and nodded. " Yeah, good idea. Anything else?"

When Elizabeth shook her head, John took off before she had a chance to think of something.

SGA

Two Days Later

John pulled his sticky, heavy eyelids apart to blurry, glowing red lines forming what appeared to be numbers. John blinked slow and careful until the film cleared and his retina focused. The red lines sharpened together, forming numbers as he had guessed, numbers that read...

" Son of a bitch!" John bolted out of bed and into the bathroom. He took a fast shower that was more like a rinse off, and barely dried off before he was back out of the bathroom, grabbing clothes and struggling into them. He dropped onto his bed, pulling on socks, then his boots, stood and rushed out the door. Only to return to grab his jacket, throwing it on as he raced down the corridors toward the conference room.

By the time he reached the room, his heart was chugging hard like an overworked engine, his lungs were burning, and his muscles were on fire. He eased himself shakily into his usual seat, too busy trying to catch his breath to fully acknowledge the combination stupefied and annoyed stares aimed his way.

Most of the annoyance was being projected by Elizabeth, Caldwell, and Rodney.

" You know," Rodney mumbled, " usually when your clock makes that annoying beeping sound, it means it's time to get up."

" Shut up, Rodney," John hissed out of the corner of his mouth. Rodney held up his hands and adopted an expression of innocence.

" I'm just saying, is all."

" Why don't you just stop saying anything..."

" Lt. Colonel Sheppard," Elizabeth interjected, loud and hard. John stiffened with a lurching heart, and Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. " Glad to see you were able to make it."

John shrunk, ever so slightly, into his seat, and clasped his hands together on the table top to keep them from fidgeting. " Uh... Yeah, sorry. I must have turned my alarm off in my sleep. Won't happen again."

" And your radio?" she asked.

John straightened again. " Huh?"

" Your radio. We tried to reach you by radio. Where is it?"

John reached up and felt along his naked ear, then shrunk again. He knew he'd forgotten something. " Oh. Well, I was in a hurry..."

Elizabeth held up her hand to forestall him. " Never mind. You can get it when we're through. Okay people, let's get started..."

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John wolfed down a small stack of waffles, along with three kinds of fruit, a bowl of cereal, some bacon, eggs, and a glass of milk. Ronon and Teyla, sitting across the table, watched him with an almost child-like fascination marred slightly by discomfort as they ate their own meal. A jab to John's side that sent a spasm up the muscles of his flank caused food to go down the wrong pipe. He choked, sputtering and coughing until the food was dislodged, and he cleared the rest of his throat with a few swigs of milk. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glared venomously at Rodney.

" McKay! What the hell!"

McKay wasn't listening. His focus was entirely on John's side, continuing to poked the area, even digging his thumb in until John slapped his hand away.

" What are you doing?" John snarled.

Rodney resumed poking and prodding, unperturbed. " Okay, this is messed up," he said. " You've been scarfing enough food to fill an elephant, and I can still feel your ribs."

John grabbed Rodney's wrist and pulled his hand away. " High metabolism, Rodney. Plus I run every morning."

" Not as much," Ronon said, then popped a piece of bacon into his mouth. " You haven't been going as long. In fact, you've been doing less running and more walking."

John really didn't have a response for that, so he tucked back into his food.

" Are you feeling well, Colonel?" Teyla asked.

John stabbed his fork vigorously into his bowl of fruit until he managed to spear some type of Athosian version of an apple. " Fine, peachy, fan-freakin'-tastic... Okay, maybe a little tired..."

" Irritable," Rodney added.

John rolled his narrowed eyes in Rodney's direction. " Shut up."

" See? Irritable."

" Only because you're in the room, McKay."

Rodney pointed his syrup sticky fork at John. " You're only furthering the proof of my point. You're also looking a little pale. Maybe you should go see Carson."

John stabbed even harder at another piece of fruit. " I'm fine, Rodney. So I have a healthier appetite, big deal. We expend a lot of energy out there and maybe my body's finally figuring out it needs more fuel. Isn't Carson always telling me to eat more anyways?"

" During missions," Rodney said. " Not off time."

John quickly finished off the rest of his food, and dropped his fork onto the empty plate with a ringing clatter. " I've got to go. Things to do," he looked witheringly at Rodney, " people to prove wrong."

Rodney took in his meal more leisurely, picking through the bowl of fruit for favorite pieces. " Well, if you _faint_, rest assured that I will never let you live it down."

" Whatever Rodney."

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John headed into the armory where a new shipment of P-90s freshly delivered by the Daedalus were being unpacked by five marines. The six crates of weapons were spread everywhere, and as four of the marines removed the weapons, the fifth counted them, marking the serial numbers on a data pad.

" Anyone test these out yet?" John asked.

The young soldier with the pad pointed at three of the open crates. " Just the first three crates, sir. All checked out."

John moved to crate number four, sliding the lid back enough to grab one of the weapons. He read off the serial number to the marine so no one would pop a vein thinking the weapon was missing, then headed to the firing range where another small contingent of newly arrive marines were waiting for further familiarization with the P-90. They stood at attention when John entered until he gave the at ease order. He then proceeded into the lecture of the different features and handling methods of the P-90, as well as the proper way to clean and assemble them.

John could have passed off teacher-duty onto Lorne or one of the other underlings. But John preferred being more one on one with the men – or more precisely one on group. It helped him to get to know them, and them to get to know him, thus helping to more quickly establish a comfort zone for the newbies. Going from earth base to earth base was one thing – something one got accustomed to and never thought twice about after a time. Going from an earth base to an alien city in another galaxy was terrifying enough as a prospect. Several of the marines standing before John he'd witnessed coming of the Deadalus with pale faces and uneasy glances. The last thing these kids needed was a cold shoulder, stick-up-the-ass CO who didn't seem to give a damn.

John did give a damn, and he wanted every single one of his men to know it.

Even now, John caught the subtle shift of stance in these kids, from being stiff as a board to more casual and generally intrigued. John even managed to insert a few comments that got them laughing. Finally, with the lecture over, it was on to the demonstration.

They all gathered around the makeshift alley where the paper target hovered at the far end. The men stepped back a little when John raised the P-90 and fired, cutting the target clean in half. He continued to hold the weapon at his shoulder, showing the men the proper way to aim.

His arm began to shake, the muscles of his bicep, forearm, and wrist beginning to burn. John clicked on the safety and quickly lowered the weapon, whirling around to face the men.

" Any questions?" his voice cracked, so he cleared it. " Any questions?"

Everyone shook their heads. John nodded stiffly.

" Good. Then grab a P-90 from the table over there and let's get cracking. Just remember to check them back into the armory when you're done."

The marines nodded and headed to the counter where P-90s had already been laid out in advance for today. John's arm trembled harder, forcing him to grip the P-90 tight, which increased the tremors in his arms until the weapon finally fell from his numb grasp. No one heard the clatter of the dropped weapon lost within the clatter of weapons being removed from the table. John stopped and snatched the gun just as the marines turned back to pick a range. John stepped behind them, and sidled over to the table to lay his own weapon down. He raised both his hands, staring at the way they twitched and shook as though he had Palsy.

John's heart thudded. " What the hell?" He finally had to lower his arms when they tired just from being raised. Weapons fire rattled off around him, making him jump and his ears ring. He stepped back just outside the firing range and tapped his ear piece.

" Major Lorne? Colonel Sheppard. What're you doing?"

The radio crackled. " Not much, sir. Just overseeing the unloading of the Daedalus."

" Think you could dump that on someone else and head to the firing range? I need a baby-sitter to oversee the progress of the new guys."

" Sure thing, sir. Be right there."

" Thanks Major. Sheppard out."

John heaved out a heavy breath and rubbed his tired, aching face. It was time to face facts – he needed a nap.

At least he hoped that was all he needed.

SGA

Two more days later

Elizabeth watched the panels with steady-eyed intent and increasing irritability. John was late – again. Really late, twenty minutes late, which went beyond pushing it to crossing the line. She'd been lenient the other day when he'd shown up ten minutes late, and the day before when it was only five minutes, but leniency time was over. Something was wrong, off, out of sync, and needed to be faced. Whatever John's excuse – a bad night, bad dreams, or a broken alarm clock – Elizabeth was firmly resolved not to believe it.

Elizabeth tapped the radio at her ear. " Colonel Sheppard..."

" Coming! I'm coming! Almost there, just a sec," came his breathless reply. Elizabeth exhaled through her nose and clasped her hands loosely together – calm on the outside, congealing frustration on the inside.

" Perhaps Colonel Sheppard is not well," Teyla, always the peacemaker, suggested. Elizabeth appreciated the Athosian's open-minded sympathy, but refused to share in it. Sometimes the only way to get Sheppard to open up and admit to a problem was to bare down on him, hard. He would try to fight back, but as long as the message had gotten across it didn't matter. He eventually accepted the truth, and soon after forced himself to do what he needed to in order to remedy the problem.

" Well _something's_ wrong," Rodney said. " He eats like a starved lion and looks like he hasn't gained a pound. Where as I eat one piece of bacon and I'm up another ounce. How the hell fair is that?"

" Our runs keep getting cut short," Ronon added.

These little insights into John's recent behavior weren't helping Elizabeth with her resolve. It was hard to stay angry with all this bombardment of evidence pointing toward something being wrong. Worry tried to worm its way in, but Elizabeth pushed it back as she reminded herself that John usually brought all this on himself by not accepting the fact that he had a problem – whatever his problem was this time around.

The subject of conversation came barreling around the corner to slow on reaching the stairs, shrugging his jacket onto his shoulders and tugging on his rumpled shirt. He entered sweaty-faced, panting, and going on pale. He gently lowered himself into his seat with a little color touching his cheeks in a blush, and his expression thoroughly abashed and embarrassed. His gaze flickered between Elizabeth and the table.

" S-Sorry," he said, his voice small, and as abashed as he looked.

It was hard – damn hard – to stay mad at him, and getting harder. John looked terrible, his hair sticking up all over the place more so than usual, dark smudges under his eyes, his breathing heavy, his clothes a little extra loose on him, and his shoulders slumped. If Elizabeth didn't know any better, she would have assumed he hadn't slept for days. And he seemed thinner, at least to her he did, which shouldn't be possible according to Rodney's account of all the food John had been consuming.

Elizabeth didn't reply to John's apology. She dove into the meeting, listening to the debriefs, then handing out a roster of off-world schedules. John's team wasn't due to go off world for a another couple of days since this was their week off. When John took the sheet Elizabeth handed to him, it was hard to miss the way his hand trembled, making the paper rattle. The rest of the meeting passed with Sheppard nearly nodding off, then being jolted awake by Rodney jabbing him in the side.

Elizabeth ended the meeting by dismissing everyone, except for John. She didn't say anything right off so she could have a moment to look him over more carefully. Her initial anger wasn't even an annoyance now. Worry had found its way in and expanded, shoving everything else out of its way. She leaned forward putting her weight on her arms and entwining her fingers together.

" John?"

Sheppard's eyes moved up to meet hers.

" John, be honest with me. Are you all right?"

John lowered his eyes to his hands lying flat on the table top. " Ummmm..."

" Come on John. It's not debatable. Either you are or your aren't, and I can already see that you aren't. I want a little honesty here. You've been late for three meetings now, so you owe it to me."

John swallowed. He raised his hand, about to gesture, but dropped it with a slap back on the table. " I... I've been feeling really tired..." he cleared his throat, " lately. And hungry. Tire easily..."

Elizabeth glanced down at her own hands. " John, I believe this would be one of those times when it would be a good idea if you talked to Carson."

John gave her an awkward smile. " Would it shock you to say that I already have?"

It did shock her, enough that she could feel her jaw gradually part to hang open. She clapped it shut, cleared her throat, and shifted to hide the majority of her surprise. " Uh... Yeah, actually, it kind of does." She furrowed her brow. " Really? You talked to him?"

John nodded, chewing one side of his bottom lip. " Yeah, I did. He did some blood work and thinks I have a vitamin deficiency that's making me anemic, which he says is the only explanation he can come up with. He's still kind of working on it. In fact I'm supposed to drop in today so Dr. Dracula can do another extraction."

Elizabeth, still reeling, nodded. " Oh... All right. Does he have you on anything? Anything that's helping?"

" A vitamin regime or something."

" And is it helping?"

John shrugged wearily. " I dunno. He says that it takes time, sometimes."

Worry brought in its old buddy guilt to join the little fray in Elizabeth. She'd been so ready to be thoroughly yet professionally pissed at him, and now the very thought of the berating she'd had plan was making her feel lower than pond scum.

" All right, John. Go see Carson. And don't worry about tomorrow's briefing. It wasn't going to be a long one anyways."

John smiled tiredly at her. " How far ahead do you plan these things?"

She shrugged with a tentative smile of her own. " Actually I was just saying that to make you feel better. I have no idea how long it's going to be. Now go see Carson, and go rest."

John gave her another tired smile, and rose stiffly to go shuffling off like a kid who'd just gotten out of bed.

Elizabeth watched him, and both worry and guilt coalesced into fear.

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Elizabeth walked into the infirmary to see Carson standing by an empty bed, jotting something down on a clipboard. He had his lab coat on, and his stethoscope around his neck. Beside him was a tray of scattered tools – blood-pressure cuff, thermometer, syringe, some gauze pads, and skin adhesive.

" Carson?" she said. Dr. Beckett looked up and smiled at her.

" Dr. Weir, love. What can I do for ya?"

Elizabeth moved toward him with her arms crossed over her chest. " Well, for starters, you can tell me why I wasn't alerted to the condition of my military commander."

Carson gave her a small wince of apology and lowered the clipboard at his side. " I'm sorry. I know I probably should have but there wasn't much to report. And Colonel Sheppard didn't want either of us to say anythin' until we knew for certain what was going on – is goin' on. He didn't want to cause undo worry until we had something more concrete to worry about."

Elizabeth should have assumed as much, but she tended to take John's protective nature for granted. " So do you know what's going on?"

Carson shrugged. " Not for certain." He then folded his arms holding the clipboard on one side and the pen on the other. " Bloody odd, actually. It's as though his body isn't absorbing nutrients properly. Vitamins, minerals, proteins, fats, carbohydrates, even cholesterol. There are a number of explanations for it, just nothing I can find as of yet. Although I have discovered a strange kind of residual protein in his blood – completely harmless as far as I can tell seein' as how it's nothing viral or bacterial related. Actually, it breaks down in his blood, but I keep finding more every time I take a sample."

" And you don't know where it's coming from?"

Carson pressed his lips into a thin, thoughtful line, then shook his head. " Not a bloody clue. And it's makin' me a trite nervous. The poor Colonel is gettin' more anemic by the day. And even with all he's been eatin', he's still losin' weight. I don't think I need to tell ya that he's not the kind of lad that needs ta be losin' weight. If it keeps gettin' worse, I'm gonna have to bring him in and hook him up ta keep a constant stream of nutrients goin' in him."

Elizabeth's heart started pounding harder. " Is he getting _any_ nourishment?"

" Oh, aye, but almost next to nothing. It's as though it's all goin' elsewhere, I just don't know where yet."

Elizabeth nodded, tightening her fingers around her arms as though the infirmary had just gone suddenly cold. " Well, keep me informed from now on, will you Carson? I know John didn't want us to worry, but apparently it's a little too late for that now."

Carson gave her a solemn, sympathetic look. " Aye, I will lass, you can be sure of that."

With nothing else left to say, Elizabeth turned and headed from the infirmary, worried, scared, and contemplating putting John into some sort of bullet proof, germ free box.

SGA

Three days later

John refused, flat out refused, to end up in the infirmary over some inexplicable ailment. For three days, he ate all he could, when he could (when his stomach would allow) to scrounge every scrap of nourishment he could. And still ounces trickled off his frame, every movement made his muscles ache, every step his lungs burn, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

This morning, he forewent getting out of bed all together. Beckett had come to check on him, taking his pulse and blood pressure, listening to his heart and lungs, then pulling another blood sample from his arm. The outcome of the recent blood analysis would determine – once and for all – whether John could stay in his room or would be forced into an uncomfortable bed in the infirmary. If nothing changed, if the mysterious protein remained, then it was off to the med wing John went. And he wasn't even wounded this time. That was just wrong, utterly, cruelly wrong, in his book.

John curled tighter and hunkered deeper under the covers, enjoying every minute he had left with his own bed. He was realistic. He remained stubbornly set on avoiding the infirmary out of habit, but felt worse than crap with no energy and no desire to deny it. His body ached, his limbs weighed him down like iron, his heart beat sluggishly, and even beneath so many covers he still felt cold. Adding to the misery was an increasing tightness in his chest – congestion – and a throbbing head.

He was also hungry, which pissed him off since eating wasn't doing squat for him except giving him indigestion off and on.

Not long now – then it would be scrubs, I.V.s, and if things kept progressing in the same line, possible catheter and the dreaded feeding tube. John shuddered. If the cause for his recent misery had a physical form, he would have filled it full of three cartridges worth of P-90 bullets. Then added a nine-mil clip-full for good measure.

John pulled the covers over his head and sighed miserably, the sigh ending in small, timid coughs. Then, as though life wished to shove every annoyance his way, he had to pee, bad. Which meant getting out of bed, forcing recalcitrant muscles to work, and shivering in what was supposed to be a stifling warm room.

So went the ways of Murphy's Law. John hauled his stiff and hurting body from the bed, and the shivering commenced when the slightly less warm air of the room surrounded him. He pushed himself to his feet with a grunt, and shuffled hunch-back to the bathroom. He handled business, washed his hand, and eyed the shower wearily.

_Might as well_. He hadn't exactly been sweating much lately, but that didn't stop him from feeling grimy and uncomfortable in his own skin. He pulled of the gray T-shirt hanging extra loose from him and tossed it into the corner of the room. He gave his reflection in the mirror a disdainful glance. It was starting to get so that he didn't have to take a breath to see his ribs.

John looked away, only to look back in a double take. There was something odd – off – about the contour of his ribcage, on the right side. John turned sideways for a better look. A yarn-thin line of skin was puckered out, like something under the flesh pressing against it, protruding, the protrusion extending all the way around to his back. John's heart, sluggish as it was, started picking up speed. John reached around with a trembling hand to lightly touch the protrusion. It felt solid, so he pressed a little harder.

It moved, the line of protruding flesh moved, going from straight to curved. And John could feel it, like a tickling of nerves, an itch under the skin he wouldn't be able to scratch. His heart thundered and his stomach clenched. Gulping, John turned, peering over his shoulder to look at his back, and his heart rocketed into his throat.

It was like seeing a snake under a blanket – not its form, but its shape. The yarn thin whatever it was beneath his skin extended from his side to all over his back, from upper to lower, curved in S-shapes and loops.

And it was moving, writhing, some movements imperceptible, others creating an unscratchable itch. John's breathing hitched into shallow, fast, panicked pants.

" No," he shook his head. " Oh no, no, no, oh gosh no! What the hell!"

He turned his back from the mirror, as though the mirror were the cause, and brought his hands up to grip his hair. His body trembled head to foot, his stomach coiled in revulsion, and his heart rammed itself into his sternum in horror. He could feel it move, this thing, this worm – this parasite. Sliding over his bones, over his muscles, resting on his ribs and across his spine. Terror closed off John's throat and slapped a haze over his mind. Panic narrowed his thoughts – fight or flight, get it out, kill it, kill it, kill it.

_It's sucking the life out of you, sucking you dry, like a wraith, like an Iratus bug! Get it out, out now! Now!_

John snapped into motion, scrambling into his room and to the chair where his gear sat. He grabbed his knife from the sheath on his belt and rushed back into the bathroom. He turned to have his right side in the mirror where the end of the thing curled. Cut above it, below it, on it? He didn't know where to start. He chose below, along a rib to keep the knife from slipping in between the bones. He cut deep, feeling the knife grate the bone, gritting his teeth that didn't stop a sob of pain from escaping. Blood oozed from the wound and tickled down his side like rain-water down a window. He kept the incision small, but not too small for his fingers to get through. He dropped the knife in the sink, and with a shaking hand slipped his thumb and finger into the incision, gasping out an agonized whimper, then swallow back the bile racing up his throat.

His fingers touched something smooth, warm, and soft – not bone. It moved away from his fingers, and John yanked his hand away in time to rush to the toilet where he vomited his recent meal. He could still feel the thing moving, the sensation sharpened by his awareness of it, and it made him wretch more until he had nothing left to vomit. And still he heaved, flanks contracting, causing the 'thing' to keep up its motions.

_Kill it! Kill it now!_

When the heaves stopped, John lurched to the sink, grabbing the bloodied knife. He pressed the edge of the blade to his side, right on the thing, and increased pressure until his skin stung and more blood drew red lines down his flank. The thing moved, coiling away from his side to his back. John yelped and dropped the knife spattering blood droplets onto the floor. He folded up in a crouch hugging his knees to his chest and resting his forehead against them. He closed his eyes, pulled in long, deep, shuddering breaths, and forced his mind to see the tickling, itching sensation at his back as nothing more than an itch.

It didn't help against the terror and disgust, but the panic fog in his brain had parted enough for clear thought.

_Relax John, relax. Since when the hell do you panic? You don't panic. It's not an Iratus bug, it's not a wraith. It's just a worm, a big, freakin' worm inside your body..._ Acidic bile burned in John's throat and he had to swallow hard twice to force it back down. _Just call Carson, get him down here... he'll know what to do... after he chews you out for performing self-inflicted surgery..."_

John unfolded himself from his huddle, slowly, decreasing his panting to careful breaths to keep the motion of his ribcage to a minimum so the worm-thing wouldn't move. He pressed one hand over the cuts on his side, and rose enough – doubled up – to shuffle into his room. The room spun, and he swayed. He picked his radio up from off the small table by his bed, and gingerly lowered himself to the floor, returning to a huddle. He placed the radio in his ear and tapped it.

" Carson?"

Blood ran between his fingers and patted softly on the floor. " Carson... you there?"

sgasgasgasgasgasgasgasgasga

" Aye, I'm here," Carson replied. He raised his head from the microscope and turned to step away from the lab table, already heading for his bag. The small, wavering voice on the other end of the com wasn't something one heard from Sheppard everyday. " Ya all right, John?"

" No, Carson, I'm not. You need to get up here, now, please. There's... uh..." Carson heard soft, almost hysterical chuckling. " There's something you gotta see."

Carson grabbed his bag and headed out of the infirmary. " All right, lad, just stay put. I'm on my way."

" Hurry."

Carson launched from a walk to a run, boots clomping the flawless metal floor. Even then time stretched enough to make the tiny journey seem longer than it was. He didn't bother knocking or calling out on reaching Sheppard's room, but palmed the door open and strode right in. The lights reacted to his subconscious need for them without him even realizing it. Urgency was usually the only time Carson ever really relied on his own gene.

John was sitting rigidly on the floor with legs drawn up, one hand gripping his knee, and the other wrapped across his stomach with his hand pressing into his side. He was shirtless, pale going on white, trembling perceptively, and staring off into space. But what really drew in Carson's focus was the blood, bright against the pale hand on Sheppard's knee. Carson paused for a breath in brief alarm, snapped from it, and took the last few steps to crouch beside John, pulling open his bag.

" What happened lad?" Carson pressed, pulling out gauze pads. " Did ya fall? Where are ya bleeding?"

Sheppard's throat convulsed in a swallow. " That's... not really the problem at the moment."

Carson creased his brow. " Well what is then?"

" My back."

Carson shifted for a better view of John's back, and the furrow in his brow deepened. There appeared to be what looked like a crease in John's skin – one long, continuous crease looped and curved all over the Colonel's back.

" Bloody hell," Carson breathed. He snapped on a latex glove, and reached out to prod the skin.

The crease moved position, and Carson snatched his hand back. " Bloody hell!"

John's breath caught audibly in his throat with a tiny choke. " Uh huh," he brokenly whimpered.

Carson starting moving his hand toward his mouth, paused to point at whatever it was writhing and sliding beneath Sheppard's skin, then proceeded on to his mouth. " Oh that can't be bloody good."

" You think?" John whimpered again.

" Does it hurt at all?" Carson asked, tempted to poked the thing again, but disgust holding him back.

" No, just... kind of tickles, like bugs..." Sheppard's breath caught again. He cringed, and the trembling increased. " Oh, gosh, doc, get it out, please!" he begged in a small and cracked voice that snapped Beckett from his stupor of horror.

Carson gave a jerky nod. " Aye, I will lad. Come on," he rose, and took John by the arm to pull him to his feet. " Let's get ya to the infirmary. Can ya walk?"

John swayed, but remained on his feet by leaning against Carson. It was going to have to do. Carson had no intentions of waiting around for a gurney or wheelchair He wrapped one arm around Sheppard's waist, and even through the glove felt something warm and slick on the pilot's skin. " Hold up, Colonel," he said, and eased John onto the edge of the bed. The Scottish doc balked to see two gashes on the Colonel's ribs. He didn't waste time on questions, though, and snatched the pads still on the floor. He helped Sheppard back to his feet, and wrapped his arm back around the pilot's waist while simultaneously pressing the gauze to the two wounds.

Carson was all ready to head out when another thought struck him. It may have seemed a trivial matter, but Carson didn't feel comfortable about half-dragging the half-naked Colonel through the public halls for everyone to catch a glimpse of the thin, bloody, and near-colorless body of the Atlantis military leader. Carson lowered John back to the bed and removed his jacket to place on John.

" Might as well have called in a bloody gurney," Carson mumbled. He slid his arm under the jacket, back around John's waist, grimacing and shuddering when he felt the worm-thing move. This time, they managed to make it out, and Carson half-dragged, half-walked Colonel Sheppard through the halls and into the infirmary.

" Cassy! A little help here, love!" he called. The auburn haired nurse Cassey stepped out from Carson's office, took one look with eyes going round, and rushed over to aide Carson in getting John to, then onto, a bed.

John gripped both sleeves of Carson's shirt in both his bloody hands. The two locked eyes. In all the years since he'd met John, Carson had never seen the look of terror in the pilot's eyes like what he was seeing now. It was a desperate, begging terror that both spooked Carson and made his heart break. He wrapped his still gloved hand around John's wrist, and could feel the man's pulse racing.

" Get it out," John pleaded in a quiet, choked voice. Tears pooled in the hazel eyes and one slid down the pallid face. " Please."

Thoughts of the iratus bug latched onto John's throat, fangs piercing the artery, sucking the life out of him, devouring him, slowly and painfully, and death as a means to save his life, spilled into Carson's mind. Thoughts he knew good and well that were also racing through John's exhausted and terror-addled brain even now. John had put up a brave front then, but one didn't survive something like that with the intentions of ever having to put up with it again. It might have seemed initially laughable that the brave, stoic Lt. Colonel was dead-insistent that the bug incident never be brought again – or bugs in general mentioned for that matter. The selfless, self-sacrificing soldier shuddering and cringing over talk of giant tics. Higher ranking soldiers would have told him to get over it. Those who hadn't been there, who hadn't heard the screams of agony and who hadn't had to watch the way Sheppard's body arched with each jolt of the defib, might have laughed.

Then get decked by Carson. Hell, even decked by Rodney. And definitely lain flat on their butt by Teyla. They had been there, they understood, and they respected John's desire. He'd worn a brave face, kept control, but he'd been terrified. He'd just been able to handle it.

Not so much now. Never the second time around, and Carson wondered if part of Sheppard's panic was due to potential use of the defib again. Didn't mater. He completely understood John's fear, and so respected it.

Carson placed his other hand on the clammy, trembling shoulder and squeezed. " Aye, I will son. I will." With the help of the nurse, he had John ease himself onto his chest. Cassy made a small gasping sound at the sight of the worm-thing sliding to another position under John's flesh. Carson had Cassy deal with the wounds on John's side as Carson wheeled in the portable X-ray device discovered a month back in an unexplored section of the city. It was a simple device, like an ornate metal box on a stand that could be raised or lowered. Carson positioned it above John's back and had to concentrate hard to bring it on. A screen attached about center on the other side of the stand lit up displaying a live version of Sheppard beneath the skin. The simple twist of a dial highlighted various sections of the body – bones, muscle, organs, and blood-vessels. John's lungs inflated and deflated, his ribcage expanded and contracted, and the worm lay like a child's scribble all over Sheppard's back.

Carson turned the dial until the creature was illuminated. It was like a cross between an earth worm and a tape worm – round body but triangular head. The head was resting unnervingly close to John's spine, right beneath the wound the result of being scraped by an Ioclat horn.

" Could be attached to something," Carson muttered to himself. " Muscle tissue, bone..." _Please not a nerve ending. _If the worm head was attached to something – whether muscle tissue or bone – removing it would be a delicate and dangerous process being that close to the spinal cord.

" Carson?" John's voice came out strained, hoarse, but controlled. " What've we got?"

Carson took a deep breath and released it slowly. He was a stickler about keeping a patient as calm as possible, but wasn't going to lie to John. " A bit of a problem. The obnoxious little bugger may be movin' around a lot but its head is stayin' right in the worse possible spot it could have picked. If I'm ta take this thing out, I have to grab it by the head, which is – at the moment – is cuddling up against your spinal column."

Carson glanced over at John in time to see a shudder course though the slender body. Cassy paused in her suturing until the tremor passed, then resumed, pale faced but steady.

" Think you could get it to move?" John asked.

Carson moved the device aside and stepped forward. The body of the worm was glaringly visibly pressing against John's skin, but tapered on nearing the head. Carson poked and prodded the area. The body moved, coiling, but what Carson would have to refer to as the 'neck' – where the body tapered to join the head – remained fixed. It confirmed Carson's suspicions – this thing was attached.

" Bloody hell," Carson whispered.

" What?" John said, lifting his head. " What is it?"

Carson shook his head. " I don't know how I'm goin' to do this. But at least we now know the reason for your recent troubles... And most likely the source of that protein I found in your blood." He winced when the stringy worm-body coiled, and he felt John shiver beneath his hands. " I must say this bugger works fast. Must be a Pegasus Galaxy thing - bigger parasites, faster deterioration."

" We can debate Milky-way versus Pegasus life suckers later doc," John's voice had an edge to it, and his control was cracking, " just get it out."

" Aye son, I will. But you have to be patient. It's going to be a mite more complicated than I'd first assumed. It's just too bloody close to your spine for comfort."

Carson felt another shudder go through John. Then a couple of coughs. Carson placed his stethoscope to his ears and the listening end on John's back, moving it around while avoiding the worm. Congestion rattled faintly in John's lungs with each breath.

That worm creature was practically starving John to death, and with lack of proper nourishment came one crappy immune system.

_That's one evil little sod._ Carson removed the stethoscope to drape back around his neck. He rubbed his jaw, sifting through options, such as antibacterials and medication specifically formulated to rid the body of parasites.

" All right," he said after a silent moment of careful contemplation. " I know you want this thing out as soon as possible, but I'd rather we save any kind of operating for last. I'll try a few medications first, see if they get that bugger to shrivel up and die. Seein' as how it absorbs most of whatever comes into your body, a strong enough dose might do the trick."

Carson heard John swallow. " All right. Let's – let's do that."

Carson clasped John's shoulder. " It'll be all right, lad."

" Say that after it's out of me."

SGA

A day and a half later.

The worm was agitated. Carson watched as it squirmed and coiled all over John's back, and John squirmed with it, breathing fast with the occasional groan and escaped whimper. It was causing him pain now, not just discomfort. Carson discovered as much yesterday when John full on admitted it, without hesitation and without compunction. For John to admit to the pain then the levels had to be viciously, intolerably high. Carson gave John painkillers, but since they weren't doing squat, assumed the worm must have been absorbing them as well.

So he stopped trying to poison the worm. John pleaded with him not to, insisting that he could hold out, and maybe he could, but Carson couldn't take standing by and allowing the worm to rip John to shreds with agony. Even with a feeding tube in through John's nose and an I.V. to combat dehydration, the worm pulled it all into its own body, leaving John very little to replenish his strength and fight off increasing illness.

The worm must not have been as quick about regenerating as an iratus bug. Carson had stopped administering antibiotics last night, and now it was late afternoon and John was still gritting his teeth and sweating profusely from pain. Sheppard's fingers curled and uncurled clutching at the sheet covering the mattress, and the parasite slid like an earthworm under the mud beneath John's flesh. Cassy wiped down John's sweat-slicked face, neck, shoulders, and side but completely avoided his back. Carson listened to John's breathing that was heavily congested and labored. Sheppard's body convulsed with silent coughs trapped behind his clenched jaw.

Carson moved his stethoscope and stepped out from around the curtain, then out of the infirmary into the hall where the others waited. Carson had banned them all into the hall when Ronon – and especially Rodney – kept peeking through the curtains every time John ground out a groan or uttered a broken cry of pain.

Elizabeth stopped pacing and whirled around to face Carson. She had her arms folded, but lowered them to her sides. " Any change?"

" Only for the worst," Carson said, sticking his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. " There's no choice in the matter now – I'm going to have ta cut the bloody thing out of him."

Rodney, sitting on the stool he'd dragged from the infirmary, raised his hand. " Uh, didn't you say that was dangerous?"

Carson nodded. " Aye, it is. With it so bloody close to the spine, and with his fever rising... But I honestly don't know what else to do. My belief – and my hope – is that since it absorbs most of whatever I try to give the Colonel, when I sedate him, the worm'll be sedated as well and might release it's hold on Sheppard."

Rodney's brow creased severely. " Might? You're going on a might?"

Carson sighed and massaged the skin between his eyes with two fingers. " Rodney, I don't even know what the bloody hell it is I'm dealing with. I'm pretty much playin' it by ear. My attempts to kill the worm hasn't done a bloody thing except make the situation worse. I'd rather not put Colonel Sheppard through any more pain, and the sooner we can get this bugger out the better before the damage gets any worse."

" Can we speak to him?" Teyla asked. She look composed, but her stance was agitatedly stiff.

" Aye, ya can. Not for long, though. And no comments from you, Rodney. The Colonel doesn't need to hear it right now."

Rodney raised his hands defensively. " What! I didn't say anything."

" Making noises of disgust is still talking, Rodney," Carson snapped. He led them all into the infirmary, but had them wait outside the curtain so Carson could cover John's back and the writhing worm with two sheets.

" Ya up for a wee bit of company, John?" he asked as he adjusted the sheets around John's neck.

John coughed and pulled in a shuddering breath before speaking. " Sure Doc. As long as it doesn't involve a lot of talking on my part."

Carson smiled. " I'll handle the responses to whatever Rodney has to say."

" I heard that!" McKay called.

Carson stepped to the side and pulled back the curtain. Elizabeth and John's team moved closer to the bed. John's blood-shot eyes rolled up to look at them, and he forced on a shaky smile.

" H-hey guys..." he rasped, and coughed.

" Colonel," Teyla replied with a warm smile.

Elizabeth stepped in closer to place her hand on John's sheet-covered shoulder. " Hanging in there, John?"

" Not much else for me to do," he replied.

Ronon said nothing in true Ronon fashion, but the Satedan was looking a lot more expressive that Carson had ever seen him. Not sad, pitying, or overly concerned, simply more sobered. Rodney was pasty faced and fidgeting from one foot to the other, eyes flickering back and forth from the Colonel's face to his back.

" You will be all right, Colonel," Teyla said, sounding almost certain. " You are strong, and you have survived much. You will survive again."

John's forced smile became less pained and more genuine. " Thanks Teyla." He curled his hand into a fist and coughed into it.

" All right, ladies and gentlemen," Carson said. " I'm afraid that's enough for now. I need to get John prepped."

Carson began ushering everyone out, but Rodney refused to budge, and Carson had a feeling why. So he let the physicist stay. Odd as it sounded, there were certain environments and moments that managed to get the overly articulate scientist to clam up. Now with less of an audience present, Rodney stopped shifting about and moved in a little closer toward John's head.

" When you pull through this, I'm getting you bug repellent as a get well present."

John coughed a few times into his fist again. " How very thoughtful of you McKay. But this isn't a bug."

Rodney pressed his lips together. " Hmmm, you're right. More like a cross between the Iratus you-know-what and a mentally handicap Goa'uld." McKay's expression softened into sympathy as he looked down at his pale friend. " Teyla's right, you know. You'll pull through. You always do."

John nodded but didn't say anything, and neither did he try to hide his fear. Rodney reached out and clapped John on the shoulder.

" Hey, you will. Carson's chicken sacrificing hasn't failed you yet. Coupled with how freakin' stubborn you are, it's a sure bet you'll get through this. And we'll be close by. Same old song and dance, right?"

John smiled at Rodney, weak but undeniably grateful. He moved his trembling hand back to grip McKay's wrist loosely. " Thanks Rodney."

Rodney patted John's shoulder, and John's hand fell back to the bed. Rodney then stepped through the curtain with Carson following. The shift in attitude and expression was palpable. The brave, hopeful looks replaced by trepidation and worry. Elizabeth looked to be on the verge of tears, and Rodney resumed fidgeting, this time with his hands and a pen.

Elizabeth cross her arms as though she were cold. " Take care of him Carson," she said, and raised one hand to wipe away the moisture in her eyes before it could fall.

" Yeah," Rodney added. " Because now's _really_ not a good time to be proving any of us wrong."

Carson nodded. " Aye," then glanced over his shoulder at the curtained off section. " And I've no intention of doin' so."

SGA

Heart monitor pads were in place, I.Vs inserted, and the local administered. The rest required wait, and periodic poking of the worm. John remained awake; drowsy, unaware, his breath barely fogging up the oxygen mask, but his eyes partially open and occasionally blinking.

A minute passed. Carson poked the worm with his penlight. The body twitched, moved, but the movements were sluggish. He waited another half minute, and poked again. This time the worm didn't even twitch. John's eyes had also slid shut.

" The creature's absorption must be a conscious effort," Carson said to himself. A nurse handed him a scalpel, and Carson proceeded to reopen the healing wound on Sheppard's back. Beside him, the heart monitor beeped steadily.

_So far, so good._ He pried the wound open like a banana peel, staining his gloved fingertips with blood, and saw the creature's flat, metallic blue, triangular head right under his fingers. Carson exchanged the scalpel for a pair of large tweezers and pushed at the head, testing it's hold on John. The head moved, lifeless, slick and half-buried under blood. Carson released a held breath of relief, and grabbed the thing at its flat neck just beneath the head.

Carson pulled, and pulled, and pulled, the slime and blood coated body sliding beneath John's skin and out his back. Carson had to take two steps back until he finally got the sense to just wrap the creature's body around the tweezers like a noodle around a pair of chopsticks. Blood dripped off the creature onto John's back and the floor, splattering when Carson's hands jerked, pulling the worm taut.

" Oh that's just nasty," a nurse breathed. Another audibly gulped, and Carson had to agree with both. He was gulping even now to push back rising bile. But he knew how to remain professional in the face of the grotesquely disturbing.

When the tail of the creature slid toward the incision, it popped out, flicking blood everywhere.

" Beaker," Carson said, and a glass beaker was held beneath the coiled worm. Carson scraped the tweezers against the rim until the worm slid off to land in a blue and bloody heap at the bottom. " All right then, Cassy love. Time to soak the little bugger in something unpleasant. See how it likes being the vulnerable one."

Carson caught Cassy's smile under her mask before she went off to do just that. Carson turned his focus back to John and sealing up the wound. Beside him, the rhythm of the heart monitor remained the same. Carson grinned.

" See lad?" he said. " Told ya you'd be all right."

SGA

Three days later

" Breakfast time, Colonel."

John's oblivious sense of self that allowed him to forget about the oxygen apparatus in his nose and another unpleasant apparatus below his waist snapped from him and slapped the discomforts of reality in his face.

Including hunger, which intensified when the smell of soup managed to squeeze through into his nose. John peeled his eyelids apart to a blurry world of blobbed colors that focused into shape after a couple of blinks. The auburn haired nurse, Cassy, was by his bed with the cart holding his tray of food. Cassy smiled brightly at him.

" Morning Colonel. Ready for some food?"

John blinked slowly and grinned at her. " You have no idea."

Cassy pressed the button that raised the bed, and John pushed himself farther up the head to be more upright. Cassy positioned the bed tray over John's lap and placed the food tray on it. The soup was chicken, with a carton of milk on one side and a small bowl of mixed fruit on the other. John's stomach growled its need, so John picked up his spoon to dig in. Carson had said that though John's stomach was still accustomed to having food in it, his body still needed gradual adjustment to getting nutrients back.

As John ate, Cassy checked his vitals, and toward the end of the mini-exam had him lean forward for a quick look at the sutured wound on his back. On opening the back of the gown, cooler air brushed against John's skin and he shivered.

" Well," Cassy said, " Everything looks good. I'll just go fetch Dr. Beckett and leave you to eat."

John gave her a quick smile in response right before putting the spoon in his mouth. He felt fine, physically. Tired, a little congested, somewhat heavy but not too heavy in the limbs. Not near one hundred percent but not too bad. Yet there was something unpleasant about being in his own skin. The wound itched, and that made him nervous. Yet he made due with appreciating being further above the complete crap-feeling he'd been suffering the last couple of days since returning from that mission. So when he smiled, it was genuine enough.

Carson approached John's bed-side, smiling but keeping it at a minimum so as not to patronize the Colonel with over-done cheerfulness. John was mending, he wasn't back on his feet, and the ill never appreciated the too-bright sunny dispositions of the healthy.

" Colonel," Carson said.

John slurped up a couple of noodles before speaking. " Doc."

" Feeling a little more on the up side?"

John shrugged and dipped his spoon back into the liquid. " Can't complain." He brought his legs up, stopping just short of the tray, for Carson's benefit and also to avoid any more poking and prodding of his feet. Nerve damage had been Carson's main concern, and the man seemed determined to never cease tormenting the nerves of John's feet until proof positive was given that he still had use of his legs.

The Scottish doc's second concern was a reappearance of the worm. And since they didn't know exactly how long the incubation period was, Carson insisted on daily checks with the Ancient X-ray device. John had hoped his massively diminished appetite would be proof enough, but Carson had never been one to take chances.

Carson made idle conversation as he waited until John finished. When the bowls were empty and the carton crumpled as small as possible in John's weakened grip, Carson moved the trays out of the way and rolled in the device. He then aided John in rolling onto his stomach, his back already exposed from Cassy's check of his sutures.

" We discovered a little somethin's interesting about the worm," Carson said as he positioned the device above John.

John's stomach clenched. " Oh yeah?"

There was a low hum indicating the device powering up. " Aye. Dr. Eli – that biologist lad with the bad comb-over – went to the planet when Major Lorne and his team returned to finalize negotiations with the folk there. Collected mud and feces samples. I'd assumed the parasite had originated from the quicksand, since ya always hear about people gettin' similar rotten little buggers in places you don't want to know about from swimmin' in bad water. But it wasn't the mud. In fact, that pit you landed in was quite clean of any kind of bacterium or parasite. It seems what you contracted came from those giant buffalo."

John lifted his head and turned it as far as he could to give Carson a quizzical look. " Really?"

Carson jotted something down on his clipboard. " Aye. We found a few larvae in the feces. Dr. Eli managed to get his hands on three buffalo carcasses. Two of them had the worm; in the back just like with you, and a mite larger than yours. Interesting thing was, the Ioclat hadn't been as malnourished as you'd gotten. A little in need of extra nourishment, but relatively healthy. We theorized that the parasite is more of a nuisance for them than a danger, the relationship almost symbiotic but not quite. Given the Ioclat's' size and their constant grazing, the worm had plenty to extract without gettin' greedy. It took what it needed while the buffalo still received enough to stay alive. You, on the other hand, being a hell of a lot smaller, didn't produce enough for either of you. You weren't the only one starving, Colonel. That worm may have been long, but compared to the ones we collected from the bison, it was thin as a thread. Didn't matter how much you ate, neither one of you were gettin' what ya needed. In the end..." He looked up from the device's screen, and his expression was shadowed.

John lowered his head back onto the pillow and exhaled slowly. " I would have died way before that worm did."

" Survival of the fittest," Carson said. " That worm had one up on ya with all it was absorbing."

John curled his fingers into the sheet of the mattress and shivered. He was overcome by a sense of vulnerability laying on his chest with his back exposed to the world. He felt small, and afraid, and despised himself for it. Closing his eyes, he clenched his hands until not even the sheet stopped his nails from biting into his palm, and mentally snarled at himself to suck it up.

But it had been just too damn creepy. Something that shouldn't have happened, and answer to why alien life forms didn't mix well. Just another bug trying to suck him dry. He was starting to seriously consider that bugs might very well be out to get him, and it was pathetic.

A light touch along his side made him flinch with a gasp and his eyes snapped open.

" Sorry lad," Carson said. " Didn't mean to startle ya."

John lifted his head and craned it around to see Carson changing the coverings over the two self-inflicted incisions on his ribs. John cleared his throat nervously, having forgotten about that whole incident, and that Carson still owed him a tirade for the attempted surgery.

John jerked his chin in the direction of his flank. " Sorry about that," he said, his regret sincere and his muscles tensing for the inevitable chastisement. What he got was a sympathetic look when Carson glanced his way.

" It's all right, son. It's not your fault."

John, stupefied, dropped his head back to the pillow when he could no longer hold it up. " Not my fault? Carson, I panicked and I butchered myself. So how the hell doesn't that make it my fault?"

" You were exhausted, confused, and frightened," Carson said with a shrug. " A nice little cocktail that would make even Ronon lose some of his senses for a time. You were runnin' on pure instinct, survival and flight or fight. But even then ya still had wits enough to be careful about the cuts, and to stop and call me in the end. Ya didn't stab yourself, ya didn't rip yourself apart. You reacted, then came to your senses, and I must say that's pretty damn impressive. Personally, I would have been bawlin' like a wee infant if I'd discovered some worm writhing about my back. And it isn't as though this was your first encounter with an alien parasite."

John shivered again. No, it wasn't his first, but that didn't diminish the experience any. In fact, it seemed to make it worse, and he hadn't even been hit with the defibrillator. He didn't understand it. It shouldn't even be classified as being on the same level with the iratus bug. This time it had been easier – sedate John, sedate parasite, pull it out while it slept, the end. So why did it frighten him so much?

Because there could have been two outcomes. Slow death, or being suddenly paralyzed. Loss of life, or loss of legs and confinement to a wheel chair for the rest of his life. And it had hurt, the pain so gut-wrenching it was perfectly reminiscent to what the iratus bug had put him through.

A warm hand settled on his bare shoulder and squeezed. " Don't be ashamed about bein' afraid, John," Said Carson kindly. " Ya had every bloody right ta be, and anyone who faults ya for it is a bloody, naïve fool. I know you like to reserve your fear for the rest of us, but you're allowed a little fear for yourself. All living beings get scared and you're no exception. So don't think low of yourself for it. None of us do."

Carson covered John's back up with the two halves of the gown and tied them closed. He helped John roll onto his back, and pulled the blankets up to his chest.

" Although I hope you learned your lesson about performing emergency surgery without a doctor or even local anesthetic present."

John smiled lazily. " Yes Carson, I have learned my lesson. From now on, I'll make sure to keep a scalpel and antibiotics in my room."

Carson grinned and thumped John lightly on the shoulder with the back of his hand. " You're a right cheeky bugger, ya know that?"

John yawned until his jaw popped, and settled deeper into the mattress. " Carson?"

" Yes, Colonel?"

" Please don't say bug."

" Oh, right, sorry."

The End

A/N: You like? Turned out being a lot longer than I thought it would. Oh well. I've been wanting to write this little tidbit for some time. Kind of a response to what would happen if John encountered another parasite. I had a feeling he probably wouldn't handle it so well the second time around, and viola - came up with this story.


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